Finish the Fight (StoneGhost)
The blue fireball missed him by yards and slammed furiously into the dry earth of the lake bed. The scorched dust of the crater, where he was a half-second before, was instantly molten glass. A terrible wave of pressure overtook him, sending the SPARTAN's three-ton Warthog airborne and flinging him from it like a toy. His helmet abandoned him, plucked clean from his head. He felt the plasma mortar's angry heat on his bare cheeks even as the ground rushed up to meet him and he rolled, headlong, limp, until he found himself spreadeagled in the dirt. He stared up the brooding East African sky, head spinning. The cool breeze felt otherworldly as it ruffled the hair of his exposed head. The grass was long and dense, except for the patch the two children had trampled down. It was quiet, only disturbed by the sound of the undergrowth swaying and rustling in the almost imperceptible draft. A vast canvas of stars stretched above like a million tiny pinpricks poked in a huge black sheet. The moon of Ehilend loomed low and dim, half-concealed behind the horizon. The girl lay with her hands behind her head, gazing up, while the boy was deep in thought, sat up on his elbows. They often came to the city's outskirts to watch the stars and the spaceships taking off, except when one of them had homework or chores to do. The boy liked the sound of the wind feeling its way through the grass and the stillness of the stars. He thought the girl was silly because she just liked doing whatever he did. Sometimes she'd help with his chores so he could go and lie in the field with her. He liked the company, though. All of the other kids were much smaller than him, and didn't like it when he always won their games. The girl didn't seem to mind. They lay in silence for what seemed like hours. "You ever wonder what's up there?" the boy finally asked thoughtfully. The girl turned to face her friend, her six-year old face lined with confusion. "Like what?" The boy paused, contemplating his answer. "Maybe someone up there is wondering what it's like here." She didn't really know what he meant. "I guess," she said hesitantly. "Do you think we'll ever meet them?" "I hope so, " he replied confidently. "Don't you?" He looked back, but the girl was gone. Somewhere, someone screamed. The electric blue eruption brought him back. Incandescent heat assailed him in a horrific wave, then dissipated as quickly as it appeared. A shower of dirt kicked up by the impact peppered him like shrapnel, but for some reason it bounced harmlessly off his body with a rattle. The starlit sky had gone and instead were only angry African stormclouds and the vapour trails of odd purplish aircraft. He raised an arm, only to find it clad in an unfamiliar armoured gauntlet, his hand gloved in a thick black body suit. There was grass here, too, but it was only scraggly, windswept tufts barely alive in the parched soil. He staggered upright, unsteady, disoriented. At his feet was a helmet, the same colour as the body armour encasing his arms. It looked like it matched. What sounded like half a dozen voices seemed to emanate from within it. Was it his? He dropped to a knee, and picked it up. Do you think we'll ever meet them? The helmet slid over his head with a hiss, like it was his, like it was made for him. The SPARTAN collapsed to the ground. The voices in his ears became clear. His surroundings swam back into view through the bulbous visor— the wrecked Warthog, the rifle in the dirt. Time to go. He knew who he was again. He stood, and looked up. The assault rifle snapped against his back, locked in place. Beyond, in the distance, a storm of biblical proportions raged, but his eyes were fixed on the volley of glowing blue orbs, arcing through the air, as if in slow motion. The SPARTAN had been stationary for too long, and this time the plasma mortars would find their mark. Beyond the Wraiths was a Covenant Army. And beyond them, a whole armada of warships. But the SPARTAN was Humanity's last, best hope, and he'd been through too much to give up. He drew his sidearm and pulled a grenade-shaped device from his hip as the blue orbs traced their deadly arc. He had defied Gods and Demons, they had said, and survived. He'd fought for almost three decades to keep Humanity in the fight. In its darkest hour, he'd brought back hope that there was a way to win. Insurrectionists, Flood, Forerunner, Covenant, it made no difference. He'd taken on worse that some stinking Brute thugs and he'd survived slimmer odds. And he'd done it all for her. And he'd keep doing it until he got her back. To his enemies he was loathed and feared, the infamous Demon. Like a spectre he occupied the dark corners of the Covenant's vile minds, causing them to waver in their convictions. He haunted their Prophets' waking dreams and gave pause to their twisted machinations. The plasma mortars' long tails vanished behind them as they screamed towards their hated, feared foe. He hurled the grenade into the dirt at his feet, and a golden sphere of light encapsulated him. The plasma mortars hit home with spiteful velocity, melting the very earth and sending the wrecked Warthog flying. When the dust cleared though, the SPARTAN was alive. The protective bubble collapsed and he was off in a fraction of a heartbeat. They were on Earth. Here, now. He knew this day was coming- colony by colony, the Covenant had inched there way here. And now they stood in the cradle of Humanity itself. If ever there was a need for a hero, it was now. He sprinted at superhuman speed toward the Covenant tanks, armoured legs pumping with explosive power, boots pounding the fine dirt. He didn't know what they were digging up. It didn't matter. He'd beat these Wraiths. Then he'd beat that army. Then he'd bury them all in the grave they'd dug themselves. He'd find Truth and kill him, like he found Regret and killed him. He'd end this war. He'd finish this fight. And he'd get her back, and he'd survive. He heard the gruff voices of Brutes below the next cliff. Because he was John-117. He was a SPARTAN. And SPARTANs never died. He jumped. Category:The Weekly Category:The Weekly Winners